


Like You Mean It

by Vulgarweed



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Apology Sex, Blow Jobs, Cunnilingus, Molly Hooper Appreciation, Multi, Negotiations, Oral Sex, Possible Polyamory, Sherlock Apologizes, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-13
Updated: 2017-07-13
Packaged: 2018-12-01 14:04:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11487900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vulgarweed/pseuds/Vulgarweed
Summary: Forthis promptat https://sherlockkinkmeme.tumblr.com:"Sherlock and John worked through their post S4 issues and are together, and John is shocked to find out Sherlock has been avoiding Molly out of guilt. John tells him he can’t come until he gives Molly the best orgasm of her life as an apology. Sherlock obeys John’s orders and gives Molly an orgasm as required, and then gives her another immediately after…just because he somewhat unexpectedly finds he enjoys doing this for her so much. ( Molly’s big smile at the end of s4) "Huge thanks toPersian_Slipper (Luthe)for the fantastic beta work!





	Like You Mean It

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Iwantthatcoat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iwantthatcoat/gifts).



_Soldiers?_

Soldiers.

If John had managed to learn anything from the past few terrible months, it’s that sometimes even a soldier has to come home. Sometimes surrender is the honourable thing. He’d postponed learning to live as a near-civilian for too long already. In the end, it wasn’t even seeing himself stripped down and losing everything - it was seeing what everything had done to those he loved- those who were left, at least. When he’d managed to lift his own veil of guilt and shame for a few shining moments - what he saw in the man standing next to him, holding John’s tiny perfect daughter in his arms dazzled him and brought him to his knees with a sense of grace undeserved.

It didn’t matter at all what John thought he deserved. He had to let go of his own ego’s insistence on making that call. Whether John thought he deserved love or forgiveness after what he’d done didn’t matter. His opinion was not the deciding factor.

Rosie was a half-orphan and it wasn’t ever going to be all right for John to finish the job; he was going to have to look out for himself and put his back into giving her a real home and a meaningful family. Rosie was going to need him, and her godfather, and both her godmothers, so Soldier John’s new mission wasn’t to be self-sacrificing and stoic anymore (not that he was ever much good at that), it was to get off his cold high horse and reach out for love with every fibre of his being that could grasp.

And love came trickling out tentatively to meet him, at first, and then it washed over him in a warm sunlit wave.

When he and Sherlock kissed for the first time - slowly, languidly, savouringly, lasciviously, _properly_ \- he thought, for one brief instant, he glimpsed the ghost of Mary over Sherlock’s shoulder, smiling, giving him a double-barreled thumbs-up.

He closed his eyes and felt Sherlock shivering against him, that great heart thrumming against his, those musicians’ hands both soothing and arousing. He tried to put an apology into every kiss and touch. 

Sherlock wasn’t having that at the moment. Sherlock wanted John’s lust, untainted by regret. Sherlock wanted John as he’d been _before_ , who still was buried under there somewhere - laughing, daring, physical, challenging.

 _Always your way,_ John thought, and Sherlock’s way was wild abandon and fierce laughing wrestling with erections getting in the way, culminating in some happy grunts and two wanton loads of mess and some shocked, elated gasping into each other’s mouths before a wail in the baby monitor broke the afterglow.

It was not a solution to their problems, but it was certainly an effective way to break the ice.

 

***

They quickly learned to take their pleasure, and their relaxation, and their increasingly easy talk where they could find it, when Rosie slept. Sherlock had even occasionally consented to turn off his phone for an hour or so - or at least turn off the ringer and hide it from sight. John considered this epic progress.

Gradually, bit by bit, in their stolen moments, they asked things about each other they’d never known, and got answers.

“I don’t know. At first I thought you just weren’t interested in anybody that way - I guess after everything I just thought you were almost completely gay,” John said one late afternoon when the dust-filtered sun of their bedroom danced in the soft smattering of hairs on Sherlock’s chest and brought out the auburn in the dark curls on his head. He lay across John’s lap in a state of complete relaxation. Something about the openness of his posture matched the growing openness of his speech. “Like, never even thought about being with a woman gay. At least until Irene. Aren’t you? Did I just presume too much?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, you’re totally one hundred percent gold star gay?”

“Yes, you just presumed too much.” At first Sherlock looked stern and withdrawn as though John had seriously overstepped. But his eyes danced merrily and then his mouth split open in a crooked, chuckling grin. His face had more lines to it now, that ethereal weirdness of his youth humanising with age, and it did magnificent things when he laughed. John wanted to make sure he did that a lot.

“Irene?” John finally asked.

Sherlock shrugged and gave his best, if-you-can’t-deduce-it-I’m-not-going to spell it out for you look.

But now John thought that maybe just a tiny little bit of Sherlock’s uncanny perception might be sexually transmitted, and since they’d finally got it right, now John might have caught it in a very mild version, like the world’s tamest chlamydia. Or maybe now that after all they’d been through, he wasn’t as afraid to read the sadness and guilt in Sherlock’s smirks anymore.

“Molly,” John blurted.

“No, I haven’t had sex with Molly,” Sherlock said, taking a sip from the long-gone-cold mug of tea on the nightstand. The thin sheet fell away from his shoulders and exposed enough of his long, lean, scarred back to distract John under normal circumstances.

“That’s not what I mean,” John said. “Molly’s your friend. Isn’t she?”

Sherlock stopped with the mug halfway back down to the nightstand. “I . . . Well, she was.” He set it down too loudly.

“Was?” John could let it go. The temptation to take Sherlock back into his arms and do everything except talk was strong. He resisted it. “Come on now. That was awful, that horror show we got put through. What did you call it - vivisection? It was. But Molly’s pretty tough.” John chuckled. “She didn’t just date Moriarty, she _dumped_ him, right? And he didn’t kill her. And I found out that she’d helped you fake your death and kept your secret for two years, and _I_ didn’t kill her. She’s a caution, our Molly. What’s your problem?”

“I hurt her,” Sherlock said.

“Yeah,” John said, carefully, reading Sherlock’s face as closely as he could. “We all hurt each other, yeah? Awful shit, all the way round. But our lives are like that, aren’t they? Molly must have come round when you talked to her and explained the situation about your sadist sister, and apologised, right?”

Silence.

“Right?” John repeated, a little bit louder and a good deal sharper.

More silence, and Sherlock slid his hand down John’s belly toward his cock, while still avoiding his face.

John grabbed Sherlock’s hand before it could succeed in its quest to derail his mind. “What happened when you talked to her, Sherlock? Did she tell you no more corpse parts until you got on your knees and begged forgiveness?”

Sherlock shivered and held still for a moment. One hand of his was held tight, so he used the other to pivot and bend down and draw the sodden sheets away from John’s cock, bending low over it.

John sat up quickly. “What happened when you talked to her? Oh God. You’re not answering me. Does that mean you haven’t talked to her?”

Silence but for strategic slurping.

“I can’t believe I’m about to say this. I hope I never have to say this again: Get my cock out of your mouth and talk!”

“I’m sorry, John,” Sherlock said, and even the little line of spit that trailed from his lips to the head of John’s penis looked contrite.

“You’ve got pretty good at apologising to me,” John said, and slid his hand into Sherlock’s curls and grasped in just that specific way that wasn’t hard enough to hurt but had the remarkable effect of making Sherlock almost pliant. “I appreciate that. I really do. I know it’s not easy. But this time, I’m not the one who needs the apology. You understand?”

Sherlock nodded and let John’s fingers tug at him, closing his eyes for a moment and clearly wishing desperately to resume mutually pleasurable conversation-avoidance.

“Every day that’s already gone by, she deserved that apology more and more. Every day you avoided her made it worse. You understand?”

Sherlock nodded. “So I…need to stop making it worse.”

“You do,” John said. “I think I’m going to give you extra motivation. You shouldn’t need it but . . . Look, I’m not the one to judge about overdue apologies, okay? I know that. We’re both obnoxious rampant arseholes in our own special ways, you and me. That’s why this works, we deserve each other. But Molly deserves better, don’t you agree?”

“Yes, of course she does,” Sherlock agreed, still not quite willing to take his eyes off John’s cock and put them onto his face for very long. “But I’ve found that there are ways that I can apologise to you…that aren’t so bad for me. If you know what I mean.”

John heaved a great, long-suffering sigh. “Oh, I know exactly what you mean, Sherlock Holmes. You can apologise to me all you like that way - but I am not going to, ahem . . . _apologise_ to you tonight. In fact, I’m not going to _apologise_ to you until you apologise to Molly.”

Sherlock jerked his head up, scandalised. “Do you really mean you wouldn’t mind if…”

“IF that’s what the lady wants, then that’s what she’ll have.” John had his Captain Watson voice on. “And in the meantime, you don’t get any, er, apologies _at all._ That means I _better_ not catch you apologising to yourself either.”

“Oh,” Sherlock said. “That’s actually surprisingly brilliant. You’re simultaneously offering orgasm as a reward and threatening denial of orgasm as a punishment. It’s both carrot and stick at once, and it’s no coincidence that they’re both phallic symbols. You’ll let me pleasure you all I like, because you know that turns me on enough to increase my own sense of urgency, and also because you believe - quite correctly - that I have wronged you in the past and therefore you’re entitled to take a little willingly given enjoyment at my expense, even with a bit of additional _emotional context_ as my sister might say. I don’t begrudge that at all. You also believe that you’ve wronged me - quite correctly - and you would never do this if you didn’t think it was in my own best interests to make as much peace with Molly as is possible. The only factor you don’t feel you can control is Molly. Quite correctly. She is the wild card. Do you really think this is the currency of apology she’ll accept?”

“We’re going to find out,” John said. “In the meantime, I take that back. I was wrong. You’re deducing again and you’re right, and it’s annoying, so please stop talking and suck my cock.”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

***

The next morning, John had treated dark-circled, unslept Sherlock to a show of dewy, freshly-showered chest and snug well-worn desert shorts, grasping a handful of Sherlock on the way to his caffeine.

“Talked to Molly yet?” he asked gruffly as Sherlock retreated to his chair to prevent another fond onslaught on his arse.

“Phone?” Sherlock whined, holding out his hand for it. “Are you going to call her or should I?”

“You know the answer to that question,” John said sternly, staring at Sherlock trying to look dignified in his leather chair. He sat down, set his hot tea on the little table, and then lifted up his foot between Sherlock’s legs, lightly rocking the pad against Sherlock’s aching bollocks - enough to keep him squirming, nowhere near enough to give relief. He handed off Sherlock’s phone without a word, just a stern look.

“She’s not answering,” Sherlock said with a hint of petulance.

“At least this time no one thinks there’s a bomb in her flat,” John said with a little smirk. “The bomb is right here, isn’t it?” He curled his toes.

Sherlock groaned, a sharp little chord of delayed gratification.

“Yeah,” John said, a little bit viciously. “Leave some noises like that on her voicemail. She’ll either come right over or she’ll block your number for good. Or maybe use it as her ringtone.”

Sherlock tossed the phone down in his lap and shuddered. “I didn’t leave a message. What should I say? Telling her I’m sorry isn’t good enough. And there’s really no way to convey the . . . urgency of the situation.”

“I’m not your sister, Sherlock. You don’t forfeit the game by telling the truth. That might be the only way to win this time.”

“You learned from Eurus!” Sherlock barked. “She was your therapist and she messed with your mind.”

“Maybe,” John said, grinning, sliding his foot down the long length of Sherlock’s thigh slowly and cruelly.

“I can’t believe you sexted my sister,” Sherlock groaned, sliding down in the chair. “You’d have sent her a, what do they call them, _dick pic_ before you’d have sent one to me. That is not on.”

“I never sent her a dick pic. She might have liked it though. Maybe I’ll flirt with Mycroft some, collect the whole set.”

“That’s what Jim would have wanted for himself,” Sherlock said, writhing. “You’re getting cruel like him.”

“Yeah,” John said, nearly choking on laughter. “But he’s dead and I’m not.”

“Are you talking about my siblings to help me bring down my level of sexual arousal? Because if so, it’s almost working.”

“Well, I’ll shut up about them then,” John said.

***

Sherlock did not manage to make contact with Molly that day, or the day after that. By the second evening, John wasn’t even playing around by tormenting Sherlock with masturbation shows anymore, not after he found a google search history for anaphrodisiacs and then the poor man himself trying to sleep in a bathtub full of lukewarm water. Sherlock’s cock still bobbed up in the water at John’s approach like the world’s most pitiful periscope.

As much as he was enjoying watching Sherlock writhe, John was getting tired of denying himself the joy of seeing Sherlock’s frankly amazing O-face, and decided to cheat a little bit on Sherlock’s behalf.

 

“Hi Molly. This is John Watson. Look, I know it’s kind of weird that I’m the one calling you. Sherlock has been trying, you know that. I’m not going to try to…okay, look, I’m not going to leave this on your voicemail so you have to call me back if you want to know. But we have an unconventional proposal. You’re either going to hate it or love it. But, um, you should know that Sherlock is suffering until we hear back from you. Maybe all three of us agree that he should be.” *Beep*

“Hi John. This is Molly. I…oh hell, you’re at work, aren’t you? I…want to talk to you, I do. I miss you. I miss Sherlock. And I kind of figured out you’re together now, and I’m happy for you, I really am. And Rosie was a complete angel the other night, except for the lamp incident and her scaring me to death but I know that’s normal. I don’t _mind_ babysitting when you and Sherlock want to have a night of furniture-breaking sex, I _guess…_ ”.*click* *dialtone*

“Crap, Molly. Must have just missed you! We really do need to talk for real and not leave messages. Maybe face to face. With someone else taking Rosie. Mrs. Hudson, and we’ll send them both to Brighton for the weekend. Maybe we should talk with Sherlock. Oh, yeah with Sherlock, we’ll need him eventually, after all. He wants to apologise to you. Desperately.” *Beep*

“Pick up your phone, John! It’s me. I’m still trying. OH. Is this a conversation that is going to be really awkward over the phone? It is, isn’t it?” *Beep*

_YES. CAN YOU COME OVER TONIGHT? JW_

_You don’t have to sign your texts like he does. I know it’s you._

***

Molly didn’t seem to know where to sit at first when she came through the doors into the familiar parlour. She glanced around for signs of Rosie although she knew the baby was safe at Mrs. Hudson’s.

John patted the spot next to him on the sofa. Sherlock pulled his chair close.

“Now, I think this is still a little . . . well yeah, what you asked. It’s awkward not over the phone too, isn’t it?” John said, pouring Molly one slim finger of Scotch.

“Um, yeah, it is pretty awkward,” Molly said to John. “Sherlock avoiding me after…you’re right, that’s even worse than, er, what, er happened.”

“I apologise with all my heart, Molly,” Sherlock said, and she studied his face until she at last truly believed it.

“I don’t blame you,” she said. “It was almost a relief, at times, not having to see you.” She wrung her hands on the sleeve of her cardigan, biting her lip. “I know it had something to do with your mad sister….Mycroft. He sent a text.”

“Mycroft? He doesn’t text,” Sherlock said, startled. 

“Yeah. That’s how I knew it was something serious. He didn’t explain it though, he just said - NOT WHAT IT APPEARED. OUR APOLOGIES. No more. I sent him a question mark back but he never answered.”

“That sounds weirdly retro,” John said. “Like a telegram.”

“He probably didn’t even type it himself,” Sherlock said. “Got Anthea for that.”

“Is your whole family like that?” Molly asked. “Other people do all your dirty work? Clean up after you?”

“No, Molly,” Sherlock said. “Well, yes. I’m trying to do better.”

“So, Molly,” John said, beckoning Sherlock closer. “I’ve been punishing Sherlock a little. He owes you. I’m a little wicked. So are you. You got hurt by getting caught up in a nasty game so it’s time you got to win a prize in one.”

“This is intriguing me,” Molly said. Sherlock’s heavy-lidded, lustful gaze and his restless hand high up on his own thigh were intriguing her even further, and John was gratified to see it.

“I can make Sherlock bring you coffee at the morgue every time he wants something. On his knees, even.”

Sherlock nodded.

“But don’t you want something more . . . intimate . . . from him? It’s not cheating. I’m in on it. I like it. If you want to play, you should know we started playing three days ago. He doesn’t get to come until he’s given you some spectacular ones, Molly.”

“I’m already rather worked up,” Sherlock said, his voice deep and breathy. “I’m very motivated.”

“You’re serious,” Molly said, hands to her mouth. “You’re both really serious. I should be so horrified right now.”

“Are you, though?” Sherlock asked. “I don’t think so.”

“No,” Molly said. “A little bit indignant, I suppose.”

“I can work with indignant,” Sherlock said. “It’s John’s natural baseline, after all.”

“Hey,” John said indignantly.

“So…” Molly said. “You want to. apologise to me. By giving me . . . orgasms? I just want to make sure I’m not participating in a mortifying misunderstanding.”

“No, you understand the mortifying parameters perfectly well,” Sherlock said, smiling broadly and wriggling his hips just a little bit in the chair, leaning forward, stretching out his hand.

“I’m not mortified,” Molly said firmly, turning to her side to look at John. “Well, maybe a little. But I’m more turned on than anything else.” She chugged back a biting sip and set the glass down and reached out for Sherlock, who crossed the short distance to the sofa, matching her increasingly feral smile. There was barely room for the three of them, and their bodies were touching all over.

John was placed in between them, and he thought that was exceedingly awkward - but Sherlock and Molly were staring at each other so intently now he didn’t want to break this delicate, potent moment by moving just yet.

“You want to do this, Molly?” John asked, his voice suddenly tender. “You’re brave.”

Molly scoffed. “I’ve wanted him for years, you know that,” she said, her eyes fixed on Sherlock and a grin spreading across her face. “I’m not so much brave as - opportunistic.”

“Oh, I do _so_ like you, Molly Hooper,” Sherlock said, with a tone in his voice that perfectly straddled the line between warmth and heat.

“Tell him,” John said, swallowing as if his mouth was beginning to go a little dry. “Tell him what you like. Show him.”

Molly’s hand trailed up the side of Sherlock’s neck, her fingers exploring the sharp lines of his jaw and then playfully tugging at his hair. “Is it okay if I ask him to kiss me?” 

Her eyes flickered back and forth between Sherlock and John - if her question was diffident, her face was otherwise.

Sherlock glanced over to John, hoping to convey many layers of meaning.

“You don’t have to ask _me,_ Molly,” John said as calmly as he could. “His job is to please you. We agreed on that. Nothing against his will of course, but I’d bloody well hope that at least kissing is fine because if not, we’re in for an embarrassing failure of a night.”

“Absolutely fine, Molly,” Sherlock said. “So much more fine than you can even imagine.”

“Oh God,” Molly gasped, and leaned in, her hand tightening in Sherlock’s hair, drawing him towards her. He rose to meet her and then surged forward, leaning across John’s lap to get to her. Their mouths came together at an odd angle at first, his lips devouring hers a little too wetly and sideways. But a soft sound came out of her, and they readjusted, and fit together joyously. Shy at first, Molly opened up like a predatory flower, drawing Sherlock’s tongue to dance with hers, sucking at it, nipping softly at his lips until he shivered and growled, reaching out to press as much of her against him as he could. Inadvertently they trapped John’s raised knee in between them until John lowered it, and Molly slid one bent leg over both of his as she scrambled forward to attempt to merge into Sherlock.

John hadn’t quite anticipated this - he’d expected awkwardness, shyness, hesitancy. There had been some, but it had vanished in a flash and now there was Sherlock and Molly playing vicious tongue rugby and trying to crawl into each other’s skins right on top of him. If he’d ever had any thoughts of keeping control of this game he’d better exert it _right fucking now_ or else he’d be reduced to the status of squirming, weakly protesting mattress for Sherlock and Molly to fuck upon. Granted, he’d been used in many much less pleasant ways by Sherlock over the years, and his cock was clearly not in complete opposition to taking the pressure off and just enjoying some high-quality voyeurism. Sherlock and Molly looked _amazing_ together even if neither one of them was any good at smoothly managing shirt buttons in a hurry. (John was frankly surprised Sherlock’s hadn’t all popped as soon as his nipples got hard - surely that tiny extra bit of tension would put them over the top.)

They felt good. They sounded good. They smelled good. John was afraid he could get used to this. Though he supposed the novelty would wear off fast enough if they were going to keep seeming to forget he was there.

“Excuse me,” he finally said, sitting up far enough to nudge them apart. They were staring at each other, breathing heavy - Sherlock’s eyes darted back and forth between John and Molly, and his face underwent a remarkable journey - confusion, contrition, calculation.

“Pardon me, John,” Sherlock said, not much bothering to hide the undercurrent of mirth. “I was a bit surprised by how natural this is all feeling. But of course my instincts could be misleading.”

“But it’s about the apologies you owe Molly, so - Molly, it’s up to you.”

Molly finished the disrobing of her upper body by herself, shrugging off the ruins of her blouse and unhooking her bra behind her back. She only blushed a little as she displayed her breasts to both men. “Do you still think they’re too small, Sherlock?”

“I - I never thought they were too small,” Sherlock said. “Myself, I mean. I never thought that. I only thought . . . You wanted them to look bigger, because of commercial beauty ideals. I - I never had an opinion, er, either way…. At the time.”

John watched in great relief as Molly spoke up. “And now?” she asked. “What do you think?”

“I think - I think . . . I think we’re both playing coy for John’s benefit, don’t you? It should be obvious that I think they’re beautiful. Isn’t it? It should be. I do think that.”

Molly smiled a little and reached out for Sherlock’s hands, drawing them back to her bare chest. “I’m glad you think that. We’re here for, um, apologies for me, right? They’re really sensitive. Best place to start again, to touch me here. You can start off soft and then get a little bit rough if you want. Hands and . . . your mouth there, yeah?”

Sherlock blinked for long moments and let Molly move his hands around where she wanted them - his thumbs on her peaking nipples, she rubbed them in circles for him - and then he took a deep breath and spoke more freely and assuredly. Breathing slightly faster. That detail was important. “You’ve got perfect little tits, Molly. You want me to squeeze them? Kiss them?”

“Oh yes, and I’ll let you know when to suck and bite,” Molly said. “John, I want to lie down for this, do you mind moving over and giving us more room?” 

John sighed. “Do you just want me to watch, or…hell, I could leave if you want.”

“No!” both Molly and Sherlock cried at once.

“No,” Molly said. “Here, can I lean on your shoulder like this? Oh wait - this feels awkward with you all dressed still. I’d like it if you took your shirt off.” She gave a smile that was just this side of innocent. “I bet Sherlock would like that too, wouldn’t you?”

“Mm, yes,” Sherlock said. 

With eyes full of mischief, Molly let her fingers pluck at John’s shirt buttons, her deft little fingers sliding the cloth of his shoulders with flirtatious caresses as Sherlock watched approvingly.

“There now, that’s better,” Molly said, leaning in against John’s bare, scarred shoulder, skin on skin, tickling him with her hair. “You can loosen your trousers if you get, um, uncomfortable, you know. And if you want me or Sherlock to touch you, you just say so, okay?”

John looked to Sherlock sternly, trying to maintain control, but the look in Sherlock’s eyes suggested that it was Molly who was calling the shots now.

As Molly wriggled down against John’s chest, John’s arm draped over her slim shoulders almost instinctively, which gave him an excellent view as Sherlock bent low over her, kissing her lips again for a long, wet dance until Molly remembered to assert the original purpose, guiding him down with her hand in his hair. Sherlock kissed her neck and her shoulder as he worked his way back down to her breasts. 

She shivered a little as he kissed her right nipple and then slowly swirled his tongue around it, drawing the hard point between his lips. “Oh-oh, yeah,” she whispered. He let it go again, wet now, and teased its point with lapping motions. “GOD,” she cried. Sherlock took this as approval and took her left breast in his hand, using his fingers to tease her in similar ways as a sort of placeholder while he repeated his actions on the right and this time with a tiny pinch of his teeth.

“You like that?” John asked.

“Fuck yeah,” Molly said, her face flushed and her language unleashed. “Maybe you could? I mean, he’s only got the one mouth. Maybe, if you could, just slide down a little? Because if I had both of you licking me like that, I’d get my first apology really fast.”

“Well,” John said, chuckling, “since he’s the one who owes it to you, it might be cheating if I helped too much.”

“Do you think I can only have one apology at a time?” Molly asked. “You said I could have a lot. But if you don’t want to, you don’t have to. It’s only just…you kind of seem like you want to.”

“You do have nice tits, yeah,” John murmured, sinking down. “But it’s Sherlock who’s got to give the, um, apology, you got it.”

“I understand,” Molly moaned as sweat prickled along her hairline. As both Sherlock and John licked and sucked her nipples, she spread her legs a little and humped against Sherlock’s belly with a few hard strokes, tightening her thighs and pulling Sherlock’s hair. She yelped and shivered and slowly settled back down.

“Was that…an apology?” Sherlock muttered against the under curve of her breast, nuzzling at her sweat.

“Yeah,” she said a little shyly. “I told you I’m sensitive.”

“Mmm,” he said, smiling. “You’re so hot for it, Molly. You left a wet spot on me.”

“You’re just getting started being sorry,” she said.

“I realize that,” Sherlock replied, running his thumb over the soft groove in her drenched cotton knickers. “This is very compelling to me.”

Molly squeaked. Just a little. “You don’t have to do . . . that . . . If you really don’t want to.”

“Why’d you think I wouldn’t want to?” he asked, softly, his chin resting on her belly just below her navel.

She relaxed a little at the circling of his thumbs on her hips and the familiar fond look in his eyes as he smiled up at her. “I just, well, after everything. And you and John being together and all, which is great, by the way, I just . . . I know you don’t really feel that way about women, and hell, even a lot of men who _are_ into women don’t like doing that . . . ”

Sherlock’s brow crinkled a little bit as he scoffed. “One would think at least being willing to experiment with the . . . um, this . . . the . . .er,” he took a deep breath and smiled - “…vulva, yes, that’s it . . . would be a beginner baseline for having girlfriends. It’s not my first choice but it’s not my last choice either, and I can’t wait to taste yours, Molly.”

“Oh God,” Molly whispered, letting her head fall back on John’s shoulder as Sherlock flicked his tongue in her navel and began to lightly nip the soft flesh just below.

She was neatly trimmed, but not bald.

He muttered soft words in appreciation of this fact, his fingertips making loose swirls in her close-cropped brown hair in advance of his mouth. He bent low and breathed on her, warm and soft, heating her slowly. “Go on then,” Molly muttered, and shivered as Sherlock kissed her lips there much the same way he’d done to the ones on her face. 

“Oh,” she gasped, and instinctively spread her thighs wider, staring. Just the sight of Sherlock’s head bent over her, the top half of his face sometimes closed-eyed, sometimes gazing up at her looking for guidance, that was almost enough right there. As his tongue began to pick up its place, she wriggled her hips, giving herself pressure in a counter-rhythm to his movements, not sure if she wanted to speed up her next climax or hold it back forever. The first one like this was going to be so, so good. “You can . . . Use a little more pressure. Use your fingers too, put them . . . Everywhere, oh God.” Her hand hovered over his head, unsure whether it could rest there.

“He likes having his hair pulled,” John said. “It’s okay.”

Sherlock gave a little vibrating affirmative hum and took the opportunity to move his nose up to catch a breath. “What an incredible scent you have,” he said, gasping deep before diving down again.

“Oh that’s good, Molly. Gorgeous. Oh yeah, look at you, squirming around like that. And yeah, little more of that. Encourage him. Moan like you mean it.”

“Oh! I - ooh! - I do mean it.” She bit her lip and wriggled, gasping up into John’s slightly incredulous face, using her hand to remind his hand to keep teasing her right breast the way she liked without getting distracted. “I _do_ mean it, John, he’s good at it! Really good!”

“Oh. He is? _Really?”_

A slightly insulted sound emanated from down below, deep in tone and rather wet. There was something like a word or two, but if he’d been inclined to interrupt his work to defend himself, a clench of Molly’s thighs helped him refocus. And just like that, she was arching upward, nearly dislodging Sherlock in her first waves of sudden climax, but he hung on, leech-like, his hands grasping her hips as she bucked and yelped.

She fell back down softly after several smaller waves, giggling and sighing, with both John and Sherlock helping to catch her, hands all over her. “I feel very . . . apologised to.”

Sherlock wiped the slick from his chin with a slight air of disappointment. “Is that enough? I still feel like I owe you a few more, if you can, er, accept them.”

“I think maybe I could,” Molly said lazily as John looked on, a little boggled as she guided his hands back down to her breasts. “If you still feel apologetic.”

“I do,” Sherlock said, licking his lips and tapping his long fingers eagerly on her sweat-sheened thigh. “If you don’t want to stop, I don’t either.”

“Mmmm,” said Molly, leaning back into John’s arms and draping her thighs over Sherlock’s shoulders for another round. “Take it slow at first. Use your fingers a lot. Um…I don’t know if you and John do this, but…sometimes when I’m real wet like now, I kind of want fingers in, well, both….”

Sherlock’s eyes lit up. “Strangely endearing that you’ve got so shy about the human body all of a sudden, Molly. John and I are very fond of anal fingering, aren’t we?”

“Yes,” John said, gripping his own twitching cock and trying to count backwards from a thousand.

Molly’s apologies came fast and furious after that, a rapid burst of happy convulsions that all seemed to blur together like the finale of a fireworks display.

With a little wail, she settled down in, squirming a little as her tremors softened. Sherlock withdrew his fingers, wiping them on his abandoned shirt on the floor, and leaned over her slowly.

When her eyes opened, gazing at him, he took in the sight of her rapturous face, and of John’s happy smile as he stroked her hair. 

Sherlock placed a long, licking kiss between her breasts and started working his way back down again.

“Oh. Oh, Sherlock, so good. Need to rest…um…give me moment.”

“You like that?” Sherlock said, sounding sleepy and pleased, licking his lips. “You’re delicious, Molly. And so responsive. I’m so glad you . . . accept my apology.”

“Mmm,” she said, nodding slowly as John gently daubed at her sweaty forehead. “So much I wouldn’t mind if you . . . Well, I don’t owe you an apology of course, but I want to do something nice for you and I really really wanted to feel you inside me, those last few, so if you…”

“I’d love to, Molly,” Sherlock said. “However . . . I . . . er, really enjoyed that. And as you know, John wasn’t letting me have any release until I talked to you. And I was a bit worked up to begin with. So I. Well. I sort of _apologised_ to myself while I was performing oral sex on you. In my pants. Without even touching it.”

“Oh god!” Molly said. “That’s so hot. Let me see!” She looked down and examined the thick wet patch all over the front of Sherlock’s heather-grey briefs, smeared partway down his inner thighs. “You really did enjoy that, then. You weren’t faking it!”

“I should hope that was clear to you already,” Sherlock said, sounding almost hurt - an illusion rather ruined by his general aura of satiated smugness.

“So John, you’re the only one who hasn’t had an . . . apology?”

“No need to apologise to me,” John said, squirming and lightly palming his aching erection. “I wouldn’t mind a thank-you, though.”

“Mm, well, I’m grateful,” Molly sighed with a little smile.

“So am I,” Sherlock said, wiping his mouth just a little bit, but carelessly. “I usually have trouble with apologies. John set it up so that we both thoroughly enjoyed it.” He looked at Molly as he crept up, letting her smell herself on his warm breath as he kissed her lightly. “I’d like to demonstrate my gratitude. I take it you wouldn’t be too bored by having to watch me thanking John for the nice thing he’s done for both of us?”

‘Oh no,” Molly purred. “No, no, I wouldn’t mind watching that at all.”

“Good girl,” John said, reaching out for her hand - and as she took it, Sherlock pounced upon John’s mouth, kissing him low and wet and deep and filling John’s mouth and nose with his traces of the full essence of Molly - aroused and oceanic, opiate and lunar, utterly delicious. John made deep growling sounds as he chased it around Sherlock’s mouth, free hand scrabbling at Sherlock’s neck, as the air between them turned charged again.

Sherlock pounced down with a quick snake-strike, his hands immediately on John’s thighs. John squeezed Molly’s hand as the head of his cock bobbed upward and Sherlock nuzzled it, teasing with breath and tongue for interminable moments before he gasped deep and drew the head of it deep into his mouth.

John arched and moaned and grasped Molly’s hand even harder. She kept her eyes fixed on the sight of his thick shaft moving in and out of Sherlock’s mouth. “Do you like your nipples touched, John?”

John’s eyes flew open at the unexpected sound of her voice. “Er . . . Yeah, that’s good. I mean . . . the right is good. The left isn’t as good as it used to be. Because. Um. Damage, I got shot. Still feels good though. If you want to.”

Molly crept over, her hands softly splaying over John’s chest as she watched Sherlock work. The sensuality of Sherlock’s movements on John’s big cock delighted her - the indignity of it all, the drool, the watering of Sherlock’s eyes, the closing of John’s, the involuntary little thrusts of John’s hips. “It’s so nice John,” she whispered as she played with him. “You’re, er, you’re gorgeous together. Both of you.” She lost herself for a moment in the scent of John’s hair. She’d under appreciated him.

“Thanks!” John cried, his eyes screwed up and tight, his body starting to tighten and shake as Sherlock held his cock upright at the root while sliding his full lips up and down.

“Oh,” Molly said. “That’s…oh you’re both so hot, look at you.” She reached out and petted Sherlock’s hair, sliding her hand down his neck and curling around his shoulder, feeling his muscles slide as he sucked off John. John was bucking and close to sobbing, and Molly reached out and kissed his jaw and his neck, and finally biting softly as he convulsed, his lower body lifting off the sofa, his hands in Sherlock’s hair.

“Mmm,” Molly said as she held John, nuzzling and kissing his cheek. She’d meant to stay out of this intimate moment, but Sherlock caught her eye and winked. Sherlock slowly licked John’s softening cock clean, kissing it gently, and then kissed his way up John’s belly and chest.

“Hello, you,” John said, smiling.

“You liked that, I take it?” Sherlock asked, falsely and smugly.

“Course I did, you cock.”

They kissed with closed eyes, but for not as long as usual, for both were keenly aware they weren’t alone. Both of them reached out for Molly, and drew her into longer, lusher shared kisses.

“You know, Molly,” John said. “Sherlock needs to apologise for a lot of things. Often.”

“I had noticed that,” she said.

“Hey,” Sherlock grunted sleepily.

“And I don’t want to get too high and mighty,” John said. “I can be a real prick too.”

“I wondered when you were going to admit that,” Molly said. “Well, I’m no angel.”

“Too right. So, I suppose what I’m saying is that, if you want to . . . continue to apologise to each other sometimes, Sherlock and I agreed we’d both like that.”

Molly lay back against both of them, warm skin on the savaged couch, sticky sweat and mingled scents. “I’m . . . going to have to think about it. I only just got used to not hating Sherlock.”

“You never hated me,” Sherlock said.

“I tried,” Molly said. “I’m really glad I don’t have to, because I didn’t enjoy that at all. It’s not like hating can never be fun. It can. But trying to force myself to hate you because I thought I should was really awful.”

“Sounds tedious.”

“It was,” Molly said. “Forced emotions. The worst.”

“Did you think that was forced?” Sherlock asked, turning towards her. “What I said?”

“I know it was.”

“But not false.”

“I mean,” John muttered, utterly spent and melting. “Let’s get up and go to bed, yeah?”

“I should -” Molly said, because it seemed she felt she should say she should, not because she actually believed it.

“All three,” Sherlock said softly, catching her wrist. “All three in my bed. There’s room. Please.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” John said. “Please join us, Molly. Make you tea or coffee in the morning.”

“I always make the tea, John,” Sherlock corrected as he uncurled himself and held out a hand to lead Molly. “I have pyjamas to loan if you’d like them, but if you’d like to sleep in nothing we’d both be more than fine with that.”

John held his breath, and his speech, listening to their soft fading banter. They were going to make a sweaty tangled pile of sleep whenever they finally did make it to the bed, because nobody was showing the least interest in moving. They’d been down a rocky road and there were no promises of smoothness ahead, but at least now they understood love really means saying you’re sorry a lot.


End file.
